


a graceless descent

by variola_in_c_major



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Angel Family, Angst, Biblical References, Brotherly Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Chuck Shurley's A+ Parenting, Closure, Descent into Madness, Dysfunctional Family, God Complex, Headaches & Migraines, Heaven, Jealousy, Lucifer's Cage, Michael-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-05 20:32:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15178766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variola_in_c_major/pseuds/variola_in_c_major
Summary: Fatherless and brotherless, excluding Raphael, who longs for real responsibility in the enormous shadow left by the crown, Michael takes the throne of heaven because he feels he must, to spare further war and discontent among what remains of his family, and tries his best to make it work. Rules are followed, bent, broken. Innocence becomes malice, when you're alone for too long. And Michael? He's been waiting an eternity for Daddy to come home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heya, folks. This idea had been bugging me for quite some time, because in canon, we don't see a ton of Michael (or, at least, our universe Michael), therefore it's hard to define him as a character without the backstory being there to fully flesh him out. I want to get to know him by writing his descent into the purpose-driven zealot we all know from s5 who was willing to sacrifice half of humanity to 'dance the Lambada' with Lucifer, as Gabriel put it. So off we go!

Between the millions of eyes upon him, and the restless murmurs through the radio waves vibrating through his head, he knew something needed to be said. Most likely by him, seeing as he would be, in the archaic sense, most fit to do so. But the words he needed to say, the words he knew to be true, were not easy to get off his tongue. Because saying them made them real. And he wasn’t ready for that.

They’d not received orders in days, the elite few nor the hoards of young eyes awaiting information. The crown did not rest heavy on the shoulders of the princes of heaven. And with only four able hands to help, to disperse information from the top, it was assumed that this was their job, relaying the next directions to their underlings. Yet, there was no information. No hands, clutching the arms of the white, marble throne, lips speaking in foreign, ancient tongues to give them purpose in their idle, unmoving lives. No robes sweeping the ground as He rose, bidding farewell to His sons for the timebeing. There was nothing. 

Michael had nothing for them. He wouldn’t make the mistake of weakness and look to his brother for direction either. The only one left. The rest gone, by choice. He liked to tell himself that. By choice. It was the only real way he could claw his way through the days, rationalizing that he was alone because of others rather than his own inadequacies. Raphael remained because he wanted to, because he knew he was needed.

He appreciated the gesture, but it did little to quell the anxiety rising in his throat. Saying it would change everything. It could destroy him like a giant toppled a tower, with ashes and dust the atmosphere for the ambushed cries of the empire, or, possibly lift him into the light he’d been chasing since his birth to no avail. There was no middle ground. There couldn’t be, with a statement like this. He had the choice now, to pick whether or not he would tread carefully upon this ground for longer, let historic moments pass and be forgotten in the scheme of time for the sake of hope.

But he’d hoped before. And hope had failed him.

With a roll of his shoulders and a straighten of his collar, the archangel Michael cleared his throat, the sound resonating with such a boom that the entire room fell to a hush at its landing. The gaze of his brother, his only remaining family, watched over him with stringency, class as he approached the empty throne, not daring to sit. Today was not the day for that. He had never anticipated a day for that until now, but…as was life, he supposed.

He would take it in stride, come time. For now, he had to swallow those nerves like little blue pills and put his mind on silent lest he become overwhelmed with the consequences of the decision he was about to make. The incredibly bold, life-altering decision.

“My fellow brothers and sisters. I’m sure that you have noticed as of late our lack of orders from our Father.”

Nods of acknowledgement dotted the crowd, but the uneasy stares did not cease, nor did he expect them to. While it may not have been apparent to the angels in front of him, he felt similarly, if not worse about the current predicament. 

“Do not panic. Rest assured, time is to keep turning, and our jobs have not been voided of importance. Mankind relies on us for protection, guidance, and of course, intervention, when necessary. There has been, however, a shift in leadership concerning day-to-day operations, which begs the meaning of this assembly.”

Murmurs this time. Quiet but loud by the numbers solely. Talk, talk, talk. Angels liked to do that. Talk. It was a waste of time, but so was this, if he was really being honest. Why any of what was to come mattered, he was uncertain. A friendly nudge in the right direction here, a small push off a cliff there. It was irrelevant to him, but detrimental to humanity. Humanity, that cost him the unvarnished love of his single parent and the loyalty of his brother. But that didn’t matter either. He would honor the plan, for whatever it was worth, for whatever it cost. It was the only thing left of the good days.

“I will be ascending the throne in place of my father when it comes to the management of heaven.”

Like the crashing of a wave as it was converged upon by another, the noise grew into a crescendo. Whether it was discontent or rejoicing, he paid it little mind as he closed his eyes, exhaling softly and feeling his body sink into nonexistent sand. Was he truly doing this? Taking what belonged to no one but a man who no longer walked among them?

He was. Irrevocably. There was no disputing the words he’d said, even for birthright concerns because, wasn’t this his right? Before the others, at least? The oldest, noble, courageous archangel Michael! Never God’s favorite, but his right-hand certainly. If this had to be done, and as he kept repeating himself, it had to be done, then wouldn’t he be the one to do it?

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Raphael’s stiff posture, his narrowed eyes and flared nostrils at the announcement, as though he were apt to disagree. Raphael, the strategist rather than the soldier, the tactician who planned rather than parried. Raphael, who would barely qualify for adulthood if not for the responsibilities thrust upon him during Creation. He couldn’t handle this burden, right? And he shouldn’t have had to.

This was the right choice, whether his brother agreed or not. It was a burden, the crown. And Michael would take it, so no one else would suffer the injustices he’d seen. So there was no corruption. No abandonment. No loveless falls from the heaven in the middle of the night. He would bear this title with its heavy, insurmountable weight, and wear the ornament with pride, because it was penance. 

Everything was, really.


	2. Chapter 2

They were all failures.

Miserable, pathetic wastes of his time, which was impressive considering just how much time a practically immortal being had in his leisure. Zachariah was among them at this point, a groveling, sniveling schmoozer who told him little more than what he wanted to hear, most days. He didn’t know which was worse, to be perfectly honest: the monotony or the disappointments the guy brought in, one after another, with each set worse than the last. Every time Michael questioned just how much more dissatisfied he could be, the next batch of candidates set a contending record. 

These new ones were younger than the initial experience range Zachariah had been using as a pool. Fresh-faced, never having seen war in their existence. Never lived it, in his tenure as king. What a lucky billion years, to not have to plant a heel upon their brother’s chest in victory or watch as said sibling is tossed in a metal box to rot and decay. He wished there was some degree of similarity he shared with his younger brothers and sisters—more like comrades. But there was not. He had to lower his standards for what he was given.

“Names and ranks.” 

It was a joyless inquiry. Zachariah, however, took no notice of the emotion as he pointed out the shapes beyond the glass they stood upon, the subjects unaware of their voyeurs. 

“Anna, captain.”

Red wings. Pretty face. The air about her breathed as though she commanded it to do so. It was promising. Michael had met her before, somewhere. He didn’t recall where, nor did it matter, as Zachariah was already off to the next of the bunch.

“Balthazar, thief.”

Oh yes. That name Michael did remember. Rebellious, clothed in debauchery and the pursuit of a good time. He’d been a great follower of his brother, the youngest one, before his defection from heaven. Unsurprising, considering their mutual interests tended to align on most points. Grey wings. Life of the party. His own, usually, if Michael was thinking correctly.

“Uriel, specialist.”

Vile. Untrustworthy. He exuded the aura of a snake, slithering through the bushes when he smiled. He was, however, threatening, which could be useful for the task at hand. Michael also had issue believing any angel would willingly defect at this point from a direct mission handed down by him, for fear of the punishment should he toe outside acceptable parameters.

It was an uncommon happenstance, now and again, angels who chose to fall. While they were not, of course, encouraged to do so, the archangel seated upon high admittedly did not care much about the matter. There’d been a myriad at first, when his younger brother had fled heaven, maroon sigil in his skin and feathers shed from bone, and descended to the murky depths of darkness to try his own hand at God’s work. They followed out of exhilaration more than loyalty, but became so upon principle when the time came for war. Those angels were less obedient than these. A different class. Those were the days of believing in free will, as though such a thing existed.

Michael had come to learn, since taking the crown so long ago, that destiny overruled all such petty qualms as free will. It was, functionally, an illusion, even in the case of humanity, whose existence stood at the forefront of the decision he would make today regarding who would retrieve his vessel from hell when the time came. A time which would, all other things considered, be horrible, for all life residing on heaven, hell, and Earth alike. He didn’t await its passing eagerly. In fact, he would have been altogether quite satisfied if this prophetic event never came to a head, as it would hit him with the force of hurricane he’d experienced before, and hoped he would never again have to bear its blisteringly strong winds. 

But it would. Like all declarations his father had left before disappearing from their lives, it would happen. And it would hurt, worse now than before, as the guilt of what was to be done fell squarely on his shoulders rather than trickling down through the hands of the man who’d first ordered it so long ago. Michael, loyal and true to God’s word, would stand upon hallowed ground and look upon a face so twisted by darkness and desperation that he would barely recognize the monster he once called family.

Still called family, actually. Although that was a secret kept even from Raphael, who stood mutely beside him at the summit, hands folded across his robes and his eyes narrowed in distaste at the group Zachariah had gathered for them.

No one would truly suffice for the task at hand. Rescuing Michael’s ‘sword’ from the frozen fires and thickly veiled bowels of hell was something he should’ve been doing himself. And he knew that, deep down. Similarly, however, he also knew that that was something he would never bring himself to, just for sake of not wanting this…this apocalypse to come to fruition. If the righteous man continued to rot in hell, so be it. There need not be divine intervention where humanity was concerned. If he was truly righteous, of good faith and pure intention, not once would he lay a hand upon his captors and demand to be freed. To become the butcher rather than the slaughter. 

There remained the plan for that contingency, however, which was where Zachariah chimed in, interrupting his moment of deep thought with his sugar-coated words. “Sir?”

“Next,” he found himself voicing, struggling to get his head straight. Raphael was surely peering at him out of the corner of his eye, curious but judging, but it wasn’t his business, this. They were barely brothers anymore, the two of them. More like business associates, and not even friendly ones at that. 

“Uh, Castiel. He’s…well. He’s a little rusty. Hasn’t been on any missions in a while—”

“Castiel?” Michael spoke, stunned by the sound of his own tone as he glanced upwards to find a rather attractive but otherwise unremarkable angel standing beside his executive assistant. A blink, and he found his gaze averted as he searched for answers as to why he’d bothered reiterating the name. It was familiar somehow. Fondly, as he recalled. But how…?

“Yes,” Zachariah answered uncertainly, visibly unnerved by the strange reaction Michael had to his introduction. He shifted his feet upon the ground, putting a small but noticeable amount of distance between himself and the angel to his right. It was not a second later that Michael set his eyes upon them once more, searching with scrutiny over their forms. 

The answer came to him when he noticed Castiel’s wings, and the tiny but distinct missing feathers from his left side, but it was not a declaration of relieved epiphany when he spoke softly, “Ah. That Castiel.” 

As though there was another angel his brother had taken a shine to in his brief tenure in heaven. Castiel, in his hazy youth, had actually spent a great deal of time around the archangels in relativity to his peers, and not for his choice. For some reason or another, out of the countless angels their father spawned out of nothingness, the youngest of his four oldest crowns took a real liking to Castiel, who was quiet and obedient, still and loyal. He was nothing like the loud, incessantly energetic being who had toted him around, showing off the metaphorical ropes of angelhood. But he had been a favorite. His brother’s favorite. 

One of them at least. One who hadn’t stuck around, due to both his own selfishness and their father’s.

“I think this group will do quite nicely,” Michael announced shortly. Zachariah stared at him for a few moments in incredulity, whilst the oldest felt a set of questioning eyes fix themselves upon him, no doubt accompanied by a voice that would be nagging at him after this garrison was escorted out. 

“E-Excellent then! Shall I brief them now or later?” His assistant was stammering, evidently relieved but visually surprised at the results of Michael’s musing. 

“Later.” Again, a shortness. Raphael was glaring daggers at him. It wasn’t the first time either.

With a shuffle of feet and the harried tone of Zachariah chattering to usher the group out, Michael turned on his heel and began walking back to his chambers. He anticipated the footsteps falling a hair behind his by a half-second, and the voice before it came. “What are you doing, Michael?”

Raphael was the only one not to refer to him with some divine title. It was no secret why, although neither breached the fact that his younger brother would have gutted him at the soonest opportunity if not for the very real fact that he would be overpowered and then cast down without wings to the depths of hell itself. 

“My job. Perhaps you should tend to yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how long this will be, but based upon estimation, I'd say it'll be reasonably short. Less than ten chapters. Although, that's without canon divergence, which I would love to throw in to spite the wretchedness that is season 6 in its entirety excluding the French Mistake. Because everyone deserves a redemption arc, or at least a shot at one. ~~(*coughcough* LUCIFER *glares at writers while stabbing the script for the past three episodes of s13*)~~


End file.
